Racing Daylight
by Flaignhan
Summary: She won't trust anybody else with him.


**A/N: **I've been listening to too much Maroon 5. This was never supposed to be 6,500 words but damn and blast here it is. Hope you enjoy it. Also, the title is awful but I can't think of another one, so forgive me for that.

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><p><strong>Racing Daylight<strong>

**by Flaignhan**

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><p>When the doors smash open without so much as a 'how d'you do', Molly doesn't flinch. She's far too used to the level of commotion that accompanies his arrival to even bat an eyelid at his dramatic entrances these days, and she mentally braces herself for the onslaught of questions, demands, and ideas that she knows is coming for her.<p>

"D'you know anything about this?"

The voice is calm, but holds a barely suppressed shake, in danger of cracking on the final couple of words. Molly turns on her stool, frowning as her eyes land on John, his face pale, hair sticking on end as though he's been running an anxious hand through it during the cab journey here.

"About what?" Molly asks, an unpleasant chill seeping through her, leaving her nauseated, her skin tingling with dread.

"_Don't - _" John begins, but then breaks off, slamming his fist towards one of the work benches but thinking better of it at the last moment, his teeth biting hard onto his lower lip. "If this is another one of his _stupid_ plans," he says, looking up at Molly with a fierce gaze. "If he's had you in on this, then you need to _tell me_, because I can't…I can't _do this_ again."

Molly drops her pipette and slides off her stool, her entire body numb. "What's happened to him?" she asks, her voice breaking as tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. "What's happened?"

She's a terrible liar, and John must know it, because as soon as she asks the question, his face simultaneously softens with guilt, and loses what little colour it still had. He can tell she's not acting, that nobody's playing pretend this time, that there's no elaborate plan involving two dozen homeless people and a handful of engineered blind spots. John grips the edge of the workbench, his knuckles burning white under the skin, and Molly has to swallow down the lump in her throat before she can bring herself to ask him again.

"What's happened?"

John lets out a short breath and straightens up. "He was taken," he says simply. "Balaclavas, guns, the lot."

He carries on talking, but Molly can't process a single word of it. All she can hear is the pounding of her pulse, the rush of her blood, and the short, sharp breaths that don't bring her nearly enough oxygen. A hot tear trickles down her cheek, her stomach twisting itself into knots, and she grasps onto the workbench, steadying herself as the panic takes over her body.

"Does Greg know?" she chokes. "Are the police looking for him?"

"They're doing everything they can."

Molly hates those words. Those are the words that are spoken to families just before Molly gets a new delivery. Those are the words that promise so much, but at the same time confirm the worst.

"It was a few hours before anyone realised…Mrs Hudson was out at a whist drive."

"They took him from _Baker Street_?" she asks incredulously.

"Stubborn prick wouldn't move out, even when they threatened…thought putting in CCTV would be enough."

Molly pulls off her latex gloves with trembling hands and drops them onto the workbench, her heart racing in her chest. She is so used to the wide, cold space of the lab, and it had only felt this empty in the two years that Sherlock had been away. At least then she had known he was coming back, but now she feels like the loneliest person in the universe, a child lost in the middle of a shopping centre, the stark white walls seemingly miles away from her.

"Has he said _anything_ to you that's out of the ordinary? Any text messages, any weird notes or phrases or emails?" John asks.

Molly shakes her head. "He's not said a word to me all week," she says, the knot in her stomach growing ever more tangled with each passing moment.

"Probably wanted to keep them away from you," John mumbles, running his hand through his hair.

"I don't think he'd worry about that," Molly says offhandedly.

"I think he would." John's tone is sharp, his anxiety momentarily forgotten as he fixes Molly with a stern gaze. She fidgets under his scrutiny and looks down at her feet, her brain more able to find the words her mouth so desperately seeks.

"How are we going to get him back?"

"I don't know," John says, looking up to the ceiling and letting out a hefty sigh. "We need him to solve this. I can't do it. I don't even know where to start, I…"

She feels deflated, the pained and frustrated expression of defeat painted across John's features leaving a hollow, dead feeling inside her chest. She doesn't know the first thing about tracking people down, nor what on earth she'd do if she ever did manage to arrive at his location, only to be met with dozens of armed men. Her mind fills with gruesome images of Sherlock suffering a variety of physical torments, her memory of how fragile he was after his return last time making it all a little too real. He had tried to cover up what had happened to him, but the stiffness of his shoulders, the wince when she had wrapped her arms around him without a moment's hesitation, and the small grunt of pain when he had straightened his spine had all given him away.

"I'm gonna…" John points towards the door and doesn't finish his sentence, but Molly nods, and he departs swiftly, presumably heading to Greg to try and help track down Sherlock. After a moment of standing all alone in the lab, the weight of the silence crushing down on her, Molly puts her things away, knowing that she won't accomplish anything worthwhile tonight.

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><p>She curls up in the armchair, a large mug of tea clasped in her hands, her eyes fixed on the TV while a Sky news reporter lingers outside of 221B saying nothing of consequence. She would turn it off, were it not for the fact that she wants to be aware of any changes the moment they happen. The clock has long since ticked past midnight, and even though she's completely drained, Molly daren't retreat to her bedroom. She won't catch a wink of sleep until she hears news.<p>

"_Of course it is entirely possible that this incident, like the detective's suicide, is an elaborate hoax. No one we've spoken to has been able to confirm one way or another - "_

"That's because you haven't spoken to anyone," Molly mutters, throwing a disgusted look towards the television, which, as though it has heard her displeasure, cuts back to the studio where a dark haired newsreader is waiting to speak.

"_We're now going live to a press conference at Scotland Yard," _she says, and the screen alters again, showing a long table, at which a host of recognisable faces are seated - Greg, John, Sally, and a man in a neat black suit who Molly is certain she has seen with Mycroft on a number of occasions. Some security, perhaps?

"_How can you be sure that he's not faking it?"_

A look of anger flashes across Greg's face, but is stifled before he answers in a measured tone.

"_Because he gains nothing from this. Last time he was forced, he was given motivation. This time, nothing. There's nothing in it for him at all."_

"_But how do you _know_?" _

Greg takes a deep breath, his fists clenching and unclenching before he speaks again.

"_This is someone with a grudge against him. Moriarty was a different creature altogether, he wanted to destroy Sherlock's reputation, these people just want revenge. This is a kidnap, and we will continue to treat it as such until the situation is resolved." _

"_Have the kidnappers made contact?"_

Greg takes another deep breath. _"No_,_"_ he sighs. _"No, they haven't. If they're watching this, we urge them to get in touch. Negotiations can be made, we don't want this situation to get out of hand."_

"_Dr Watson, what clues have you got so far?"_

John blinks at the sound of his own name, and straightens up, looking like a deer caught in the headlights as his face is illuminated by the flashes of cameras. He looks towards Greg, who gives him an encouraging nod, but John opens and closes his mouth several times until he leans close to the microphone to speak. _"We uh, we have video footage of the kidnap itself. We know that a white transit van with the registration - " _he looks down as Greg slides a piece of paper across the table towards him, _" - M395 UPU was used in the kidnapping, and that there were at least eight people involved."_

"_The perpetrators are confirmed to be armed," _Greg says pointedly. _"Under no circumstances should anybody approach if they see them. Call 999 as soon as it's safe to do so and let us handle it."_

"_Any message for the kidnappers, Inspector?"_

Greg sighs, his shoulders slumping, stubbled face tired. _"Give him back_," he says simply. _"He'll be driving you potty by now so just give him back. He's an arsehole but…" _he pauses, looking down at his hands. _"We do love him. And we want him back." _

Molly turns the television off, the lump in her throat growing too large for her to be able to watch another second. She's certain that someone will tell her as soon as there's news, that she'll get a text message or a phone call in the middle of the night. She's hoping it's the former - good news can be sent out by text, bad news has to be broken a lot more carefully.

She sips her tea, now lukewarm and providing none of the comfort she hoped it would. She tries to think about something else, _anything else_, but she can't. Everything in this flat reminds her of him. She can't look around without her brain throwing up memories of him stretched across her sofa, or pacing back and forth in front of her bookshelf, his hair dishevelled from ruffles of frustration as he tries to make sense of a case. She never understood why he came here, why her flat, why her company? She'd get it if he used her flat while she was at work, as a place where he could get some peace and quiet, but no. She's always home when he shows up, always there to provide cups of tea and force him to eat when his face is looking drawn, his eyes less bright than usual. She tells herself that she'll go through all that again, that she'll tut to herself when she goes into the kitchen and finds the destruction caused by home experiments, that she'll lay wide awake all night cursing him because he's taking up too much of the bed, that he'll rearrange all of her books without a word, leaving her unable to find anything. No matter how hard she tries to force those scenarios on herself, none of it's convincing. The kidnappers haven't been in touch, which means they're not holding him for ransom, they want something from him, or worse, they want to settle a score.

She checks her phone, but there are no missed calls, no text messages, nothing. She passes the time by scrolling through her text messages, hoping that the never ending list of demands will continue to grow far beyond its current length. This is just a blip, by this time next week her text alert will be sounding at all hours of the day and night, requesting body parts or tests or second opinions.

_I've spent the last three days surviving on chocolate digestives and peanut butter no thanks to you._

She smiles as she reads the text, one of the few times he's messaged her just for the sake of it, then scrolls down a little further.

_Glee's back next week. _

_Thanks? x_

_It is that one that you like isn't it? I saw an offensively colourful advert on the side of a bus earlier. _

_Yeah, it is that one. Thank you. x_

She had, of course, been well aware of the _Glee_ schedule, but having Sherlock text her regarding something that she _knows_ he has absolutely zero patience for had raised a smile. It still does, and she almost forgets how dire the current situation is, until her heart gives her a painful reminder that she might never have him text her about her favourite programmes ever again. She tries to stamp down the idea, but the further and further she scrolls without hearing a single scrap of news, the lower her heart sinks in her chest, and the less hopeful she becomes.

* * *

><p>She lurches into consciousness, her ringtone blaring loudly, phone vibrating on the arm of her chair. She doesn't recognise the number, but, heart frozen in her chest, she snatches up the phone, sliding her thumb hastily across the bottom of the screen.<p>

"Hello?"

She waits for a response, and though she can hear somebody at the other end of the line, no words are uttered. A chill runs through her as she considers the possibility that Sherlock's kidnappers are trying to trace the call and locate her. What on earth they'd want with her, she doesn't know, maybe they think she has information about Sherlock, or perhaps they think he'll be inclined to talk if they threaten her with violence...or worse.

"Hello?" she says again, unable to flatten out the tremor in her voice. The breathing at the other end of the line is heavy, laboured, and any other night she'd hang up and go and check all the locks on the doors, but not this night.

"_Help._"

The word is uttered so quietly that had she not been straining her ears, Molly might not have heard it at all. No matter how quietly he speaks however, she will always recognise his voice.

"Where are you?" she demands. "Sherlock, where are you?"

There is a clatter, and the line goes dead. She tries calling the number back but is only greeted with the busy tone, a melancholy repetitive bleep of futility. Molly skims through her contacts until she reaches Greg's number then pauses, her thumb hovering over his name. What if he's being watched? What if, just like last time, everybody else has got invisible targets painted on their backs?

Molly leans forward, grabbing her laptop from the coffee table and opening the lid so quickly she nearly breaks the hinges. She opens her web browser and types in the number that Sherlock called her from, carefully not to mistype a single digit. She whacks the enter key and after a moment a flurry of results appears, telling her without a shadow of a doubt that the number belongs to a phone in Goxhill. She clicks on the map and zooms out, her heart plummeting as the distance between her and Sherlock becomes obvious. It's nearly two hundred miles, and so she rapidly types the postcode into her phone, grabs her bag and her keys then leaves the flat, not even bothering to turn off the lights.

She unlocks the car and tosses her bag inside, resting her phone on the dashboard before she buckles her seatbelt and starts the engine. The GPS is estimating a good three hours to reach him, but she can't afford to leave him waiting that long. She'll just have to put her foot down.

Unwilling to waste another second, she slams her foot on the accelerator, tyres screeching and startling a nearby fox as she pulls away, the stench of burning rubber assaulting her senses. The radio is playing some upbeat pop song that she doesn't recognise and she's just about to slam her palm against the off button when she changes gear in time with the song, the fast pace keeping her on her toes. The lights ahead switch to amber, and Molly presses down on the accelerator, speeding forward and passing through the junction just as they hit red. As long as she doesn't get stopped before she reaches Sherlock, she doesn't care what penalties she has to incur. She'll take all the points in the universe, cough up the cash for all the fines, observe any driving bans just as long as she can get to Sherlock. No matter how harsh her punishment, it will always, _always _be worth it.

It seems to take her forever to get to the north circular, and then another age before she makes it to the M11, but once she's there she increases her pressure on the accelerator, speedo ticking its way past the ninety mark with ease. The engine doesn't complain when she pushes it further, up into three figures, sticking to the third lane as she races past the stream of lorries on their delivery runs.

She's convinced that she needs to get to him before daylight, lest anybody else discover him. She won't trust a stranger with him, not when he's vulnerable. She looks down at the clock and estimates that she probably has a good two and a half hours before the sun starts to creep over the horizon, and she puts her foot down, no longer intimidated by the speed. She's never driven this fast in her entire life, and doubts she will again, but now she wishes she'd been more of a daredevil when she'd been younger, that she'd pushed her limits and grown confident. If she had, then she might have been tempted to buy a faster car, something that could top a hundred and forty miles and hour without the engine displaying any signs of discomfort. Instead she opted for the city runaround whose steering wheel shudders when the speedo gets within spitting distance of a hundred and twenty.

She ignores the vibrations coursing up her forearms and focuses on the road ahead, turning up the radio to drown out the sound of the engine. Each time she glances at the clock only a few minutes have passed, and the reflection of her maps app in the windscreen informs her that the miles aren't passing nearly quickly enough. In the end, she resolves not to look until at least five songs have passed, and as soon as she hears the soft spoken DJ's tones over the outro of the fifth song, her eyes snap towards her phone, the progress much more satisfactory.

When she reaches the A roads she discovers that she's one of the very few people out at this time, and in the dark, her high beams illuminating the signs in the distance, she presses on. She wants to call that number back again but she's certain she won't get an answer. She can't afford to stop and delay herself anymore, and it's not until a quarter to four that she breaks the hundred mile mark, and the progress encourages her to push the engine harder, hoping it's had a sufficient warm up. She keeps her eyes peeled for signs to Lincoln, knowing that once she's past that milestone, she'll be on the home stretch. She just hopes he hasn't moved on, or that nobody's picked him up.

It's getting on for five o'clock when she reaches the outskirts of Goxhill, and she slows down, the tired engine rumbling as she weaves her way down the narrow streets, past small clusters of terraced houses. In the distance, sitting proudly on the inside of a bend, is a bright red telephone box, lit up by her headlights like a beacon. As she draws closer, she sees that the door is open, and there is a dark shape slumped in the corner. She pulls over rapidly, her seatbelt jamming with the sudden jerk, and her fingers fumble with the buckle before she jumps out of the car, engine still running.

She can't swallow down the cry of relief that springs from her when she sees him, his chest rising and falling slowly with weak, shallow breaths. He's alive, and that's more than enough to be getting on with for now. His face is faintly stained with blood, his hair matted with crimson, and when she reaches him, she discovers that his clothes are soaked through and clinging on to an unpleasant odour.

"Sherlock?" she breathes, reaching out a trembling hand to cup his face. "Sherlock?"

He groans softly, but doesn't open his eyes, and Molly takes a cautionary glance around before going any further. The night is completely still, the silence broken only by the soft chugging of the car engine. She hangs the telephone back on the receiver and brushes his hair from his face, revealing a nasty gash on his forehead caked with blood and grime. Steeling herself, she grabs him under his arms and heaves him closer towards the car. It takes her the best part of a minute to cross the ten yards between the phone box and the car, and when she reaches it she opens the passenger door, propping him against the car while she crosses around to the driver's side and climbs in, reaching across to Sherlock and hauling him inside the car. He lets out a loud and sudden grunt of pain, and Molly nearly releases him, but tightens her grip at the last moment, knowing that he'll be much better off if she only has to do this once. When she's got the bulk of him inside, she gets out again, crossing around to his side and manoeuvring his long legs into the footwell before she closes the door softly, taking one last look around before she rushes back to the driver's side, gets in and closes the door, twisting around to check the backseat before she locks the door. Sometimes she thinks she's watched too many crime dramas, but sometimes, she's pretty sure that she's watched just the right amount.

"I'll find a hospital," she says quietly, turning down the radio and casting a worried glance in his direction. The petrol gauge doesn't give her the best of news, but she's pretty sure she's got enough fuel to get them a fair distance away from Goxhill and somewhere safe, somewhere quiet they'd never think to look for Sherlock, or maybe somewhere big where they'd have no hope of finding him anyway. She wishes he were awake so he could tell her what to do - both options have their pros and cons but she's sure he'd be able to disregard one of them as an idiotic choice in a heartbeat.

Bigger might be better in this instance. A larger hospital is likely to be better equipped than a small, quiet little building in the middle of nowhere. Looking at the map, she decides it's a toss up between Scunthorpe and Grimsby. He's soaked to the bone though and Grimsby's on the coast, so it might be wise to head in the opposite direction, rather than heading back towards danger. Decision made, she cranks up the heater and pulls away, much more gently than she did when she got into the car a couple of hours ago. She drives much more slowly now, certain that if Sherlock has handled the last few hours saturated and slumped at the bottom of a phone box, he'll be able to survive a smooth ride in a warm car to the hospital. She doesn't want to attract attention, and as the sky gradually grows lighter, more and more cars fill the roads, all trundling along as though nothing is amiss in this quiet corner of the world.

She follows the signs to Scunthorpe, her eyes itching with tiredness despite the fact that her brain is more alert than if she'd swallowed a dozen espressos. Every so often she reaches across to Sherlock, wrapping her hand around his and giving it a squeeze, her fingers sliding down towards his wrist to take his pulse. It's weak, but not worryingly so. She doesn't think he's lost too much blood, certainly enough to be getting on with, but it's those weak breaths she's more concerned with, along with the likely concussion, hypothermia and, potentially, any sort of disgusting bacteria he might have ingested while submerged in mucky water. They are however, all problems that can be solved with the right treatment and equipment. She grips the steering wheel tightly as she reminds herself of this for the tenth time, her heart leaping when she sees the big white H that signifies that the hospital is near.

A few minutes later they arrive at a large red bricked building with a myriad of entrances. She parks the car in the spot closest to an abandoned wheelchair and yanks the keys out of the ignition. She gets out of the car and goes to collect the chair, pulling it along behind her by the bright yellow metal handle, one of the wheels letting out a long and irritating squeak. She opens the passenger door, catching Sherlock as he slumps towards her, and her toe manages to find the brakes on the chair, securing it before she pulls Sherlock across to the padded blue seat. She closes the car door with a slam, locks it with a click of her key fob then shoves her keys into her pocket.

The journey to A&E is a bumpy one, and after the fifth 'sorry', she gives up on apologising to him, concentrating instead on pulling him across the uneven tarmac. He hisses when she drags him up the curb, the hard wheels offering no relief against the sudden jerk. She bypasses the queue at the triage desk, taking Sherlock right up to the screen in order to speak to the nurse.

"Excuse me love, there's a queue here!"

Molly turns around, her jaw clenched, to look at the man who is cradling his arm but looking otherwise healthy. It takes all of her willpower to not roll her eyes at him, but she'll be damned if she's going to make Sherlock wait for medical attention just because this idiot's got a sore wrist.

"This man has broken ribs, a severe concussion and hypothermia," she says darkly. "You're here because you can't handle a sprained wrist. Either go home and rest it or _shut up_."

Silence falls over the waiting room, and when Molly is certain she won't be challenged again, she turns back to the nurse sitting behind the perspex screen.

"Can you please get a doctor?" she asks calmly, uncomfortably aware that everybody is listening to her.

The nurse nods and abandons her computer, bustling off through the maze of offices. Molly waits with all eyes on her, her skin tingling under the scrutiny. She crouches down in front of Sherlock, tilting his face up so as not to cause his neck any strain.

"Can you hear me?"

He grunts softly in response and she lets out a shaky breath.

"You're going to be all right," she tells him gently, not wanting the entire waiting room to be privy to their conversation. "You'll be sore for a while, but you'll be all right. I promise." Her hand finds his and she interlaces their fingers, not caring that if he were conscious enough he'd probably dismiss her gesture, too proud to ever accept comfort. As it is, he can't even support himself, so there's no way she's letting go of him.

"Bring him through."

Molly looks up to see a doctor with rolled up shirt sleeves holding open a set of double doors. She springs to her feet and grabs the chair handle, wheeling Sherlock around and following the doctor. Her portering duties are soon taken over by a stern looking nurse and Sherlock is loaded into a bed, Molly ushered into the waiting room.

She paces around, biting her lip, then decides, at long last, that she should call John. Even if they're listening in to the phone calls she doesn't think they could take Sherlock from such a large hospital, not when he's being treated by a couple of doctors who are supported by a handful of nurses. There's no way they'd make it through the door with guns and balaclavas, they won't be able to repeat the events of 221B. No chance.

Her thumb works independently of her brain, scrolling through her contacts until she finds John's number and dials it. It doesn't even finish the second ring before she hears his voice at the other end of the phone.

"Molly?"

"I've got him," she says shakily. She clenches her spare hand into a fist and rests it at her side, teeth clamping down on her lower lip as she tries to steady her breathing. "I think he's going to be all right."

"Where are you?" John asks, and she can hear a flurry of movement in the background. "Your place?"

"Scunthorpe," she says quietly, and immediately she hears John freeze.

"_Scunthorpe_?"

Despite her dry throat and the seemingly blocked route between her brain and her mouth, she stumbles her way through a brief explanation.

"And you didn't think to call us? It could have been dangerous! You shouldn't have gone on your own!"

"I thought they might be watching you. I guess that's why he called me." She shrugs, though she is perfectly aware that John can't see it. She feels like she's being told off by a parent after a particularly stupid stunt, but she'll stand her ground on this one. Last time both John and Greg had been targets. Sherlock had come to her because she had the means and the freedom to help him, and she doesn't doubt that that was the case this time around. Now Sherlock's in safe hands however, they don't need to worry about anything being taken out on him, and all of her gruesome visions of severed digits arriving at Scotland Yard via courier are now a distant and ridiculous nightmare.

"I'm coming up there. Have you told Greg?"

"No, no one. I didn't want it to get out that he's here."

"All right," John says, his voice calm, his breathing deep and measured. "I'll speak to Greg and I'll see you soon."

The line goes silent and Molly slides her phone back into her pocket, resuming her pacing, arms folded across her chest. She must cross the room at least two hundred times before the doctor eventually reappears, peeling off a pair of bloodied latex gloves.

"He's resting," he says. "We had to pump his stomach, we think he's been in a _river_." He furrows his brow at his last statement, then looks to Molly for an explanation, but she doesn't give him one.

"Is he all right?" she asks, clasping her hands together, her eyes lingering on the doctor's stethoscope, dotted with scarlet prints.

The doctor nods, then steps aside, gesturing for Molly to head into the ward. She proceeds uncertainly, biting down on her lip. It had been difficult enough seeing him after he'd been shot, his face pale, his expression still. When she goes into his room, she finds him sedated, his heart monitor bleeping away steadily, a thin strip of skin adhesive keeping the cut on his forehead neatly closed. He's buried under a number of woollen blankets, but Molly can still see the bruises around his neck, and her eyes linger on his lower lip, split in the middle and scabbing over. There's a dark circle around his right eye, the skin puffy and swollen, and his face is littered with minor grazes, bright red and irritated in the aftermath of disinfectant.

She lowers herself into the chair, her limbs stiff from so many hours spent in the car, then twists onto her side, legs curled under herself, and rests her head on the heel of her palm. She doesn't suppose he'll be awake any time soon, and so she closes her eyes, breathing deeply until her own heartbeat falls into rhythm with the repetitive bleep of his monitor.

* * *

><p>"Just spoken to the coastguard," a gravelly voice says. "He reckons they've had a few bodies wash up this morning. All armed."<p>

"Really?" John sounds surprised, and Molly can hear the squeak of his shoes on the linoleum floor as he shifts his footing.

"Yeah," Greg replies, "they've closed off the beaches, not that anyone'd be going this time of year."

"Where were they _taking you_?" John asks in a bewildered tone.

"Rotterdam I suppose," Sherlock replies, his voice cracked, his vocal cords having probably suffered some trauma from all the tubes jammed down his throat while the doctors were working on him. "Then god knows where after that." He tries to stifle a yawn, but is unsuccessful, and the sound mingles with a hiss of pain as his ribs are pushed a little too far.

"Why didn't you use a lifeboat?" John asks. "Why did you have to _swim_?"

"They'd have _seen me _in a life boat," Sherlock says with as much exasperation as he can manage. "Do try and keep up."

John tuts and his shoes squeak against the floor again, the noise shortly followed by the quiet scrape of chair legs being lifted from the floor and set back down again, much closer to Sherlock's bed.

"Why did you call Molly?" Greg asks. "She came up here on her _own_ you know. It could have been dangerous. _Really_ dangerous."

"I…" Sherlock trails off, and Molly concentrates on keeping her face in a neutral expression, her eyes closed while her skin prickles under the gaze of the three of them. "I suppose it was just the first number that came to mind. I wasn't really…I didn't really know what I was doing."

A thick silence follows Sherlock's words, but is then broken by John. "S'pose there's a first time for everything, isn't there?"

Greg snorts, and Sherlock lets out a huff which results in another hiss of pain. "Go and get me something to eat," he says impatiently. "I'm all…" he casts around for the right word. "Empty."

"Not surprised, they told me what they pumped out of you. Brown is bad, but green is worse."

"D'you mind?" Greg groans, and John chuckles, his chair legs grazing against the floor as he stands up.

"Tea wouldn't go amiss either," Sherlock says as John heads towards the door.

"Anything else?" John sighs.

"Painkillers."

"_No_," John says sharply, and Molly doesn't need to open her eyes to know that he's jabbing a reproachful index finger towards Sherlock. "Access _revoked_. It's your own bloody fault so you're going to have to _deal with it_."

"I was only joking," Sherlock replies tartly, sounding far too much like a sulking teenager. The bed frame creaks as he raises it up a few notches, the motor whirring, and John must take this as a sign that the conversation is over, because the sound of his footsteps fades into the distance.

"I'll go with him," Greg says. "Wouldn't mind some breakfast myself."

"Get Molly something as well," Sherlock says. "She'll be awake soon."

"Don't you dare wake her up," Greg says, taking on a similar tone to that which John had adopted moments ago. "The poor girl drove halfway up the bloody country for you last night, you leave her be."

"Her _breathing's_ _different_," Sherlock says pointedly. "She's waking up of her _own accord_."

It takes every ounce of effort for Molly to maintain her breathing, though she's certain that Sherlock will have picked up on something to detect her false slumber. Her mind races as she tries to come up with an explanation, but soon Greg's gone and she finds herself opening her eyes, unable to keep up the charade any longer now that she is the only source of interest in the room. Before she can blurt out a lame excuse about wanting to avoid another telling off for not calling, Sherlock utters two words that she rarely hears from him.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" she asks, shifting her position in her chair so she's more comfortable.

"For putting you in danger," he says. "For worrying you. For making you drive that far. For the stiff neck." He nods towards her, and Molly notices too late that her hand is resting against the side of her neck, trying and failing to rub out the strain caused from such an unpleasant sleeping position. "I'm sorry for all of it."

"You can always call me," Molly says softly, dropping her hand from her neck and leaning forward. "Whether mine is the first number that comes to mind or the _last_ number. You can _always_ call me, and I will _always_ come for you." She bites her lip, and looks up into his eyes, staring intently at her, as though he's trying to see through her words, perhaps trying to unmask some deeper meaning. She couldn't be any plainer if she tried, she has well and truly laid her cards on the table.

"I know," he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper. He clears his throat, but his voice is still rough when he speaks again. "I know."

She shifts her chair closer to the bed and rests her hand uncertainly against the rail, unsure whether he'll accept any contact now that he's conscious and lucid. He is, apparently, in two minds as well, because he skews his lips, his fingers twitching, but then he jerkily lifts his hand then places it on top of her own. His touch feels strange at first, but when she doesn't pull away he relaxes, and it becomes much more comfortable and natural.

Far too soon, John and Greg return with bacon sandwiches wrapped in serviettes and polystyrene cups of tea, and Molly and Sherlock snatch their hands away simultaneously, Molly fighting the rising heat in her cheeks with all her might. Thankfully neither John nor Greg are as observant as Sherlock, who is currently far too interested in the contents of his sandwich to notice her blush. They eat in silence, and as Molly swallows down her final mouthful of sandwich, serviette screwed up in her hand, she notices Sherlock's hand has found its way through the rails of his bed, his palm open. She glances across to John and Greg who, even if they didn't have the distraction of tea and sandwiches wouldn't be able to see Sherlock's hand behind the bundle of blankets covering him.

She places her hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches upwards in the faintest of smiles.

* * *

><p><strong>The End<strong>


End file.
